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3AM Boozed Thoughts (Short Prose)

We sang our hearts out ’til the sun finally gave up on us. Our faces slightly blushed by the sun hours earlier and later by more than a few glasses of vodka and beer. I could live like this for a few hours more – but I can’t, I said to myself. And then I listened to her as she tried to put her heart on the table, to put all that she felt into words. I could imagine how hard it might have been for her to do so, ‘coz I myself was never an articulate one either.

While face to face with one of the most honest people I have ever met in my life, I suddenly realized how big of a joke I was. It was quite humbling, actually. I felt like she was unintentionally holding a mirror in front of me, as I listened to her, I then pictured my life at the same time. I listened to how messed up things were for her at the moment while I saw how I intentionally let things in my life f*ck up and then just patch it up after.

I felt her exhaustion in every short moment of her faraway gaze. She was tired but she was strong. She remained herself despite the pain. I realized how much of a coward I was since I’d barely let anyone see how tired I really am… of everything. I was used to jestering things away. That night, I learned that it’s OK to be tired – ‘coz I was tired of pretending to be somebody I’m not.

She was vulnerable. Honest. Genuine. Fragile. Everything that I am not. I’m a hypocrite. A coward. A sham formed by plastic through time, for the fear that who I really am might break in the open.

If only she knew how much in awe I was of her when she said in all drunkenness that this kind of moment – music, companionship, booze, unusual yet palatable food, sunlit terrace, deep conversations, sunsets, laughter and a little hint of foolishness – was what life was all about, while I, already predicting my next day’s regret for letting myself have a liter and a half of alcohol in my system, couldn’t help but scare myself for simply agreeing with her about how that moment felt so right, while at the same time the hypercritical side of me kicks me in the arse for feeling happy about this harmless night.

If only she knew how much I admired the way she puts her tear-traced gameface on despite her peeking brokenness (oh, only God knows her deepest, darkest hurts), while I struggle to patch myself with the norms of life, to put on ridiculous masks, one after another, just to pull myself together, just to assure to myself that I have it all together so that eyes wouldn’t judge me, so that I could have all the approval I could get – when in fact I DON’T really have it all together.

If only she knew how much I envy how brutally honest she can be about being in such a helpless case and still be filled with hope, while I struggle to always, always force myself to write every chapter of my life in such an ending that’s filled with hope when in reality I say to myself “Who am i kidding?” ‘coz I know in my heart that this hope is beginning to flicker – it scares me.

That night, I saw strength in her eyes, a kind of spirit that put to shame every bit of mine, and I loved her for that.

I went home and slept for what felt like more or less two hours. Thoughts kept me awake. The alarm goes off. No time left for dear sleep. Reality and the norms are waiting for me. And here I go, back to being the coward that I am. All I could hope for is another merciful day, where she’d still have booze for us.